


Absolution (All I Know)

by mslilylashes



Series: the Final Form of Love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dark John Watson, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, POV of Abuser, PTSD Sherlock, Sexual Abuse, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mslilylashes/pseuds/mslilylashes
Summary: Companion/Sequel to Penance (What He Wants). Please heed any and all warnings; this is a very dark fic. See notes for more details.





	Absolution (All I Know)

**Author's Note:**

> So. I’ve had a bit of feedback arguing both sides of whether or not to write a continuation of Penance (What He Wants), and this is what I came up with. 
> 
> I’m predicting will tick a lot of boxes for some people, deeply disturb those who wanted a happy ending, and generally dissatisfy those who wanted it left alone, but here we are, lol.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

ABSOLUTION (ALL I KNOW)

_I bruise you, you bruise me_  
_We both bruise too easily_  
_Too easily to let it show_  
_I love you, and that’s all I know_

Sometimes, when the days are especially dark, and the world is especially cold, and the sight of Sherlock induces a frightening level of rage, John Watson shuts the door to his room, sits at the end of his bed, closes his eyes and remembers the happiest day of his life.

He is sat at a grand table, dressed in a rental tuxedo of Sherlock’s choosing that is worth more than every other item of clothing in his wardrobe combined, between his two very favourite people in the world. Mary is radiant; her eyes so full of joy and love, that John feels as though she could light the entire room. There are flowers in her hair, the ring on her finger — _his_ ring — catching the sunshine filtering in from the floor to ceiling windows, a beautiful smile stretched ear to ear. She squeezes his hand, and they grin, and turn their attention back to the man to his left.

Sherlock is radiant as well, though rather than emitting waves of affection, it is anxiety and determination causing the air around him to ripple and shimmer, though the undertow is still pure love. Sherlock loves John; he knows this. Everyone there knows this, and the sentiment is quickly echoed by the man himself, when he announces to the entire room (might as well be the entire world) that John is the luckiest damn bastard on the face of the planet, to be sat between and loved dearly by Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan.

The memory of Sherlock’s speech still brings tears to John’s eyes, just as it did on that day, though now it is not sentiment and gratitude that causes them, but a deep, sharp sense of loss and anger and regret that gnaws at a spot just behind his clavicle, and keeps him up most nights with a bottle of whisky in his hand. It’s what courses through his veins as he shouts at Sherlock, takes him down, makes him cry, tears him apart.

Somewhere deep down, he realises he is turning into his father, but he doesn’t even care — or rather... He isn’t able to care.

The John would care — that would be horrified at the things his hands have done, that wants so desperately to bite his tongue as he spits the words _bitch, slut, whore, sack of shit, freak_ at Sherlock, that wails inside every time he uses Sherlock’s body for his own selfish pleasure — is lost in grief. He is buried six feet below the ground, next to Mary, as if the bullet — rather than piercing her chest — had shattered the glass of the aquarium display, and sent the water from the tanks crashing down on John, sending him spiralling wildly, lost below the surface.

Mary radiated light — she would have been his lighthouse in the storm, but she is gone now. John is swept away by the current, and though he knows it is no excuse, he just can’t bring himself back to shore.

~*~

It starts with a drunken kiss in the kitchen that escalates to a violent round of snogging. It is only when John tastes Sherlock’s blood that he is able to regain some sort of control over his drunken actions, and pull away, but the next day, Sherlock gives his shaky consent, and John needs no more words of encouragement after that.

Sherlock is there, and willing, and _alive_, and John, from his underwater, underground, grief-induced stupor, just needs to feel _connection_ again. Rosie is off with Auntie Miriam, Mary is dead, Harry is on another bender, and John is _alone_. It’s like being home from war all over again, but now he knows what he was missing. So, he takes Sherlock at his word, and uses his transport for all it was worth. 

Sherlock never tells him no. All John’s darkest fantasies and desires and even things he just heard the lads laughing about in the rugby locker room, but never believed people actually did — they are all fair game now. It is like having a living, breathing, sex doll — a fuck toy. There are no messy emotions involved — John still feels cold rage when he looks at Sherlock, but Sherlock is so willing to let John _do what he wants_ — says he is _entitled_ — that John can let go of the anger, and focus on the carnal pleasure of having a warm body beneath him. He justifies this to himself that sometimes in order to survive, you need to be selfish, and after all, hasn’t he earned it? _Sherlock_ has always been the selfish one. _Sherlock_ has put John through more than his fair share of pain and suffering, isn’t it only fair that now _John_ get a bit of his own back?

They progress to more deviant acts, and _goddamn_ if it doesn’t light John’s groin on fire to see Sherlock struggle to insert some of the more intimidating toys up his arse while keeping John’s cock in his mouth, or straining against Lestrade’s stolen handcuffs, even though John knows police issued handcuffs are not to be trifled with. Sherlock never refuses the games John invents, and John even gives Sherlock a word he can use in case he gets too overwhelmed.

(Admittedly, the safeword John gives Sherlock is a bit cruel, and truthfully, he picks it because he doesn’t want Sherlock to use it. John doesn’t want to think about Sherlock’s wellbeing right now, doesn’t want to focus on Sherlock’s enjoyment, so he picks the worst, most manipulative word of all: _Norbury_, Sherlock’s biggest failure.)

Some days John looks in the mirror as he brushes his teeth while Sherlock cooks him breakfast, and he doesn’t even recognise himself. Sometimes he doesn’t think that this is a bad thing.

~*~

The day things finally come to a head is not unlike any other nondescript that has passed since John has returned to 221B, the only difference being that _this_ day has significance. _This_ day is one John has been dreading for weeks, because _this_ day is special — or rather, it was supposed to be.

_This_ day is the day that was supposed to be his first wedding anniversary.

The little box on the calendar seems to be mocking him; the bold numerals staring back at him indifferently, not knowing or caring that each line of mass produced ink is like a dagger straight into John’s heart. He should be making the decision between yellow daisies, which were Mary’s favourite flower, or red roses, which Mrs Hudson calls the flower of true love. He should be begging Molly to keep Rosie for the night, and making reservations at their favourite restaurant. He should be scouring the shops for the perfect anniversary present — perhaps some shamelessly gratifying lingerie, or a new bottle of Clair de la Lune. He should be planning the perfect night.

Instead, he finds himself wandering the aisles of the local hardware store, picking up the supplies he needs for a very different type of night. He selects various different pieces of hardware and tools, pays, and leaves. He uses Sherlock’s card to pay, and doesn’t even need to shout abuse at the chip and PIN machine. How far he has come.

When he gets home, he occupies himself with setting up the scene he wants to play out with Sherlock once he gets back from the Yard or Barts or wherever the hell he gets up to these days. John doesn’t much know or care anymore. Rather than speculate, he rummages around the upstairs closet for the power drill, and gets to work. The final touch is pulling out a bag he had secreted away under his bed weeks ago when it arrived in the mail, stuffing the rest of his purchase from the hardware store inside, and placing it under the end table. When he is finally done, he pours himself a drink, settles himself into Sherlock’s chair — the one with the better view of the kitchen, and the door — and waits.

~*~

Sherlock arrives home a few hours later, carrying bags of groceries in one hand, and opaque bags of what clearly has to be body parts in the other. He starts when he sees John sitting in his chair, and a look of confusion and apprehension takes over his features.

‘John,’ he says curtly, as he makes his way into the kitchen, and begins loading the contents of both sets of bags into the refrigerator. Once he is satisfied that all perishables have been safely stored away, he returns to the sitting room, and awkwardly takes the seat in John’s chair. John watches him push into the chair, close his eyes briefly, and breathe deep, a look of sadness flitting across his face so quickly that John thinks he might of imagined it.

‘Shall I make dinner?’ Sherlock asks uncertainly, opening his eyes, ‘I stopped at Tescos on the way home... I can make that risotto you like, but it’ll take a few hours. Or I could make spaghetti bolognese, which would be considerably quicker, and maybe save the risotto for tomorrow? Or maybe you would prefer takeaway...?’ He trails off when John makes no indication he is interested in food at all. He swallows hard, ‘Or... Or perhaps you would like me to... To help you relax?’ He looks away from John when he asks this, but he allows no indication of reluctance colour his voice.

‘Actually, I brought home something new for you today,’ John informs him, pulling out the black duffle from under the end table, completely ignoring the offer of dinner, ‘Spent all day working on it, too. I thought we could try it out tonight.’ He watches Sherlock carefully, sees just the slightest droop of the detective’s shoulders before he steels himself, and nods dutifully.

‘Of course, John,’ Sherlock replies, and he rises again, ‘Now? Should I...? He gestures vaguely to his still clothed body. John gestures at him to proceed.

There is no grace as Sherlock begins undressing. His movements are stilted and awkward as he shrugs his jacket from his shoulders, unbuttons his shirt. He kicks his shoes off, pulls off his socks, and unfastens his belt, before dropping his trousers. He scoops all his clothing up haphazardly, and leaves it in a pile on John’s hair. Questioningly, he steals a glance at John, and hooks the thumb of his right hand into the waistband of his shorts. John shakes his head.

‘Leave them,’ he instructs, and Sherlock exhales a small sigh of relief that the night will not begin, at least, with anal penetration. John suspects he is still sore from their session a few nights ago in which Sherlock struggled valiantly to accommodate an oversized dildo while deepthroating John’s cock for hours on end.

His relief is short lived, however, when John points towards the entrance of the kitchen, and gruffly says, ‘Go look,’ to Sherlock, and he watches as Sherlock cautiously approaches one of the walls.

John has moved the full length mirror into the kitchen, and has it leant against the kitchen table, which is directly across from where he’s sat in the sitting room. He watches Sherlock’s reflection as he catches sight of the two thick metal rings on either side of the entryway to the kitchen that John installed earlier in the day. Sherlock reaches for one, runs his fingers across the thick metal, dips them inside the loop, and gives it a gentle tug. It is screwed in tight; there is no give at all, as John has drilled it straight into a stud. He shifts his gaze to John’s face, a look of trepidation on his own. John regards him coolly, betraying no emotion. 

‘Ready?’ He asks flatly, and Sherlock nods his assent, and bites his lip.

‘Kneel,’ John commands, using his Captain John Watson voice, pointing to a spot on the floor directly between the walls of the entryway. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, but obeys. 

John pulls some items out of the duffle, makes his way over to Sherlock until he is standing directly behind him, and wrenches Sherlock’s right wrist up until his arm is extended fully at shoulder level. He snaps a leather cuff around Sherlock’s wrist, and runs a thick piece of rope through a D-ring on the cuff, and secures the rope through the ring on the wall, leaving Sherlock’s right arm extended and immobile. He repeats the process with his left arm, and steps back to admire his work. 

Sherlock’s arms are both extended fully. John thinks briefly that he looks like an angel who has lost his wings, waiting to be sacrificed. He feels a heavy sense of satisfaction deep in his stomach at the idea. 

‘Do I need to gag you, or are you going to behave tonight?’ He asks coldly. 

Sherlock flinches, but shakes his head, ‘No John,’ he replies quietly, training his eyes on the ground, ‘I’ll be... It’s fine.’

‘Good,’ John says indifferently, returns to Sherlock’s chair, and pulls another item from the bag. 

It is a beautiful, yet dangerous looking whip that John has ordered specially online. It is much heavier than the novelty floggers sold in the sex shops in town; this one has tightly braided thick leather straps hanging from it, tied into wicked looking knots at the end. It is more similar to the ones used as punishment on the old naval ships than anything that could be considered recreational. It’s not meant to tease; it’s meant to _hurt_.

Sherlock raises his head for the briefest of moments when John resumes his place a few feet behind his bound body. John watches his reaction in the mirror set against the kitchen table, and he can see Sherlock’s eyes take in the cruel whip in John’s hand. Sherlock’s breath hitches, and he lowers his gaze again, biting his lip. He makes no comment, and neither does John. 

John gives Sherlock no warning before landing the first blow with all his considerable might. True to his word, Sherlock does not cry out, but he cannot stop the grunt of pain when the whip lands on his back with a solid _thud_. 

The skin on Sherlock’s back is already a ruined masterpiece of scars, some delicate like calligraphy from a fountain pen, but others, more prominent, are thick, ropey layers of raised flesh, left over from his time away, from after the fall, when he was off doing god knows what, and John was left to try to salvage his own will to live. Mary has found him then, put him back together when he was shattered, and gave him the promise of a new life and a new love. And now she was gone. 

The memory of Mary hits John like a freight train, and his response is to put even more force into the second blow. It feels like an exorcism; his grief travels through his arm, into the whip, and is absorbed by Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock jerks against the ropes this time, but gains no leverage. From the reflection in the mirror, John notices two tiny pinpricks of light in the corner of his eyes, which grow steadily sharper as the next two blows land. Sherlock is no longer silent — his breath comes in harsh gasps, and low, keening whines come from deep within his chest.

It goes on for several more minutes, until John is panting from exertion, his arm beginning to ache from the repeated movement of bringing the whip down across Sherlock’s back, which is now a mottled red and purple, the skin beginning to swell, and even split in some places. John understands now why the bosuns on the old naval ships worked in shifts of twelve blows. He has landed a few more than that, and it feels as though his arm is about to fall off.

Sherlock’s head is hanging low now, and it seems as though the strength has been sapped from his legs, because he is clearly being supported only by the ropes holding him upright, which must be murder on his shoulders. John can’t see his face, but he watches the detective’s shoulders heave with deep, shuddering breaths, and hears what sounds suspiciously like ragged sobs.

John decides he will strike Sherlock five more times, then plunder his mouth for a quick blowjob before bed. He raises the whip again, and pauses only when Sherlock lifts his head and meets John’s gaze in the mirror.

Tears are streaming down his face, and his eyes are wide and vacant looking. His lip is bleeding where he clearly bit it to attempt to follow John’s instructions, and keep as quiet as he could. John stares at him a moment longer, and watches in fascination as Sherlock swallows hard several times, and clears his throat before attempting to speak.

‘_Norbury_,’ he says in a creaky whisper, then coughs roughly, and tries again, ‘_Norbury_, John, please. _Norbury_. Please, stop. Please. Please.’ Once he begins speaking, the words spill from his mouth in frantic desperation. He weeps. He begs.

_Sherlock Holmes has never begged for mercy in his life_. John remembers from their interaction with The Woman. It makes him pause. He considers this for a long moment, then ducks under the rope securing Sherlock’s right arm, and makes his way into the kitchen and begins rummaging in a drawer.

When he turns back around, he is holding a knife, and when Sherlock sees it, and last semblance of control he had over his emotions flies straight out the window. He jerks wildly against his bonds, and _howls_. He is begging and threatening, the words spewing from his lips in English, and also a Russian-sounding language that John doesn’t understand, but the intent behind them is clear enough. 

Sherlock’s voice is getting louder and higher until all he is emitting is a wordless scream. John has never — not even in Baskerville — seen Sherlock react to _anything_ the way he is behaving now. He looks positively _feral_.

‘Sherlock!’ He snaps, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He approaches Sherlock’s bound form, and quickly runs the knife across first the rope binding his right arm, and then his left. Sherlock collapses to the ground, curls in on himself, and brings his arms up protectively to cover his head and neck.

John is at a loss. For the first time in almost a year, he feels the once familiar stirring of accountability; the need to protect and heal the man on the ground before him. He sets the knife down on the kitchen table, crouches down, and shakes Sherlock’s shoulder a little.

‘Sherlock, what the fuck?’ He asks, his tone a bit gentler than what his words would imply. He leans down, and strains to hear the words Sherlock is whispering.

‘_Molimo vaš nemojte_. Please. _Dovoljno_. I don’t know anything,’ he pleads frantically, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. His chest rises and falls at an alarmingly rapid rate.

‘Sherlock, look at me,’ John commands, and Sherlock cracks one eye open, and stares up at John, before uncurling slightly, and opening the other eye. There is no recognition, and his pupils are enormous. John brings two fingers to the side of his neck, and feels Sherlock’s pulse thundering away beneath the cool, clammy skin. It is certainly not arousal that has Sherlock reacting thus; John immediately recognises the signs of a person falling rapidly into shock.

‘What the fuck,’ he mutters again, and slides an arm around Sherlock’s body, and pulls him up into a sitting position as gently as he can. Sherlock moans at the contact, and tries futilely to pull away, but his movements are sloppy and uncoordinated. In the end, he allows himself to be manhandled, all the way to the sofa. He sits there passively, his head leant back against the sofa, his chest still heaving, his eyes jammed obstinately shut. 

‘Sherlock, you need to breathe,’ John instructs curtly, ‘You’re going to pass out if you don’t calm the fuck down. Did you hear me? I said _calm down_!’ He is nearly yelling now, knowing that this is _not_ an effective way of dealing with a person in shock having a panic attack, but he is _so torn_ between the fierce anger he has felt towards Sherlock since that day at the aquarium, and a feeling close to horror at how severely out of character Sherlock is behaving.

He slaps Sherlock in the face, in a last ditch attempt to get him to focus, and surprisingly it seems to work for a moment. Sherlock jerks backwards, but then his eyes fly open, and after a few blinks, his gaze lands on the man before him.

‘John?’ He queries uncertainly with a slight shake of his head, then it’s as though his soul has flown back into his body, and his eyes focus properly on John, and he flinches involuntarily at John’s hand still raised to strike him again. He swallows hard, and sits up straight, retraining his gaze to the ground, ‘Oh god. John. I’m sorry, John. I... I didn’t expect to react like that. We can- we can try again,’ he says, struggling to raise himself off the sofa, but his legs refuse to hold his weight, and one knee buckles, forcing him to use his hands to break his fall. The sudden movement jerks his shoulders and back, and he lets out a hiss of pain.

John stares at the battered man at his feet, and doesn’t know what to say, but he does have the wherewithal to at least lower his hand. Sherlock doesn’t even notice; he is still struggling to get to a standing position, all but growling in frustration when his body refuses to cooperate. Finally, he surrenders to his transport’s protestations, and simply kneels, leaning heavily on the sofa for support.

‘I can still bring you off,’ he says desperately, ‘You were going to go for a blowjob after the beating, I could tell. I can still... Maybe you can sit on the sofa, and I’ll... I can do that at least, John. And if you want to try with the whip again tomorrow, I can... I should be fine by then. I _will_ be fine by then, I promise.’

Something in John’s chest clenches, and he shakes his head. Sherlock looks like he is approaching hysteria at John’s refusal, and he tries to raise his shaking hands to John’s belt, but John catches his wrists, and hold them gently, but firmly before him.

‘Sherlock,’ he says, his voice still rough, but without the bite it normally has, ‘_What the ever-loving fuck just happened_?’ 

Sherlock hesitates, his eyes glued to his restrained hands for a long moment before looking away, and he says quietly, ‘The- the position you had me in was... Familiar. I think I suffered some sort of flashback to the last time I was tied thus. It was... Unpleasant. It’s never happened to me while I was awake before, so I didn’t think to anticipate... It won’t happen again John, I swear.’

‘You were speaking Russian,’ John informs him, still not releasing his hands. Sherlock shakes his head.

‘Serbian,’ he corrects John, ‘Before I... Returned, I had infiltrated a terror cell in Serbia, or attempted to, at least.’

‘Attempted to,’ John echoes, wondering how he could have never thought to ask before. He’d stoutly refused to give Sherlock the audience he so clearly wanted for the epic tale of his time away, and instead had imagined him to have been off on a grand adventure, playing the game he so desperately loves. He releases Sherlock’s hands now that he is satisfied the detective is distracted enough to not go after his belt again.

Sherlock shrugs in earnest, wincing only slightly at the movement, ‘I was caught,’ he admits, and there is a familiar note of annoyance in his voice, ‘I was not as quick as I meant to be. The Serbians... They were not pleased.’

‘So they tied you and beat you?’ John asks. Suddenly his guts feel as though they are full of ice.

Sherlock shrugs again, and looks away again. He swallows, before saying carefully, ‘Among other things. Mycroft interceded before... Before they went too far.’

John doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to do with this new bit of information, but suddenly the flat feels stifling, and the sound of Sherlock’s ragged breathing seems to roar in his ears. There is a dark vignette on the outskirts of his vision, and he can feel his own heart rate begin to race. 

‘I need some air,’ he all but barks, and abruptly slams out of the flat. The action is familiar, but the leaden weight he feels low in his belly is not, and John finds he does not care for it at all.

~*~

The next morning, he is woken by the sound of his mobile screaming shrilly in his ear. He groans and checks the time, surprised to find that it is nearly noon. He hasn’t slept this late since back before... Before. When he used to come over and stay up with Sherlock til all hours of the night working on a case, until they both collapsed where they sat, Chinese takeaway cartons and black and white photographs strewn all over the flat. Back in those days, they would usually wake together, pressed against each other on the sofa.

This was different. He had indeed come home late last night, after wandering aimlessly for hours, to find Sherlock still on the sofa, but he had clearly passed out while waiting for John to return, hopefully merely from exhaustion. He was still nude, save for his shorts, and he had curled into his customary position facing the sofa, his exposed back to the room. The skin of his back had progressed to deep purples and blues from the cruel bite of the whip. John stared down at him, still unable to decipher the new swirl of emotions he felt after Sherlock’s confession, but he did grab the orange shock blanket they kept under the sofa as a joke, and threw it over Sherlocks sleeping form before stumbling up to his room, and falling into a dreamless sleep, still clothed.

Now, though, the mobile shrieks again, and John grasps for it blindly, before mumbling ‘ ‘lo?’ with his eyes still closed.

‘John? Is that you?’ Molly’s voice sounds frantically from the earpiece, ‘John, are you awake?’ She sounds as though she has been crying. John’s eyes fly open.

‘Molly?’ He asks pointlessly, suddenly wide awake, ‘Yes, Molly, I’m here. What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Sherlock, John,’ she cries into the phone, ‘He’s here, and he’s on the roof, and I can’t get to him. I don’t know what to do. John, I’m so scared. Will you come?’

‘What are you talking about, Molly, Sherlock is asleep on the sofa,’ John says, a sick feeling sinking into his stomach as he jumps out of bed and thunders down the stairs, ‘Fuck!’ He exclaims when he sees the sofa empty, and the blanket thrown carelessly on the floor, ‘Nevermind, you’re right. He’s not here. He must have gone out while I was asleep!’

‘John, please come,’ Molly begs, tears now clearly evident in her voice, ‘He needs you, John, he’s barricaded the door, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to call the police, because I don’t want them to take him away. He doesn’t need an institution, he just needs you. I know you’re still angry, but please, if you ever cared for him, please come.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ John promises, and sprints out the door, still wearing his clothes from the night before.

~*~

The cab ride to Barts is nerve wracking to say the least. John is so anxious, he seriously debates several times leaping from the cab and running the rest of he way there, but instead he forces himself to remain seated in the cab until they pull up to the familiar entrance to the hospital. He throws some bills at the cabbie, and jumps out, slamming the door behind him.

The sight of the sidewalk makes him pause, even amidst his panic. Was it really so few short years ago that he collapsed on this very spot when he say blood — so much blood — pouring from the shattered skull of the body he thought was Sherlock’s? After everything, did it really matter that it had all be an elaborate rouse? The image that haunted his dreams was real enough.

He races inside, past the security guards, past Molly’s lab as she shouts hello at him, to the entrance to the rooftop. He jiggles the handle violently, but finds that something has been jammed between the door and the frame that leaves it immovably shut. 

‘Sherlock, open this door right now,’ John demands, pounding his fist against the metal door. ‘Whatever the hell you’ve jammed it with, you better remove this very second, and let me out there.’

‘Why, John,’ comes the faint reply from somewhere surprisingly close by, ‘I’m fine. You needn’t bother. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Goddamnit, Sherlock, just open this fucking door!’ John roars, slamming both palms against the unyielding surface, ‘Molly is moments away from calling the cops, and you know as well as I do that your brother will be here minutes later.’

That seems to do the trick, because after a few seconds, John heard a frustrated growl, and something screeching against the door. He tries again to jiggle it open, and finally it gives way. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and exits the stairwell onto the roof.

Sherlock is sat mere feet away, leaning unsteadily against the side of the rooftop exit. He does not look at John, but instead has his gaze trained on something off in the distance. Neither man speaks for several minutes until John can contain himself no longer. He lowers himself to the ground, and sits next to Sherlock, their knees nearly touching.

‘What the hell, Sherlock?’ He asks, unable to articulate anything more than that. Sherlock slides his eyes over to John for the briefest of moments before returning his attention to the open sky.

‘Just thinking, John,’ he replies heavily, ‘Just remembering the last time I was here. I should have never... I’m just thinking how royally I fucked everything up for you by coming back.’

John doesn’t know what to say. He has thought this hundreds of times since Mary’s death, however unfair a thought it may have been. For so long, he wished more than anything that Sherlock would _just stop being dead_. He wonders now, if that wish was granted as some sort of twisted Gift of the Magi... One resurrection from the dead to be repaid with another life.

‘I was supposed to die in Serbia, John,’ Sherlock continues quietly, ‘I planned to survive the fall, but I never planned to come home. Mycroft found me after I had been captured by a group of Serbian terrorists. He stepped in approximately two or three days before they planned to execute me over an internet livestream. He decided I would be more useful at home — remember how we stopped Parliament from being blown to bits? If he hadn’t caught wind of that plot, I would have been beaten to death and died an unknown martyr, and you could have gone on with your life. That was always my intention. You were meant to be happy,’ he sighs, and for the first time, looks John full in the face, ‘I’m sorry, John. If I had the ability to go back in time, I would have prevented Mycroft from wading in.’

‘_Sherlock_,’ John breathes, his heart finally settling down enough that he could try to form coherent thoughts, ‘I never knew. I never knew what happened while you were... Away.’

‘I didn’t want you to,’ Sherlock explains, closing his eyes again, and tilting is face towards the sky. He looks as though he wishes he could disappear into the blue, ‘When I came home, I just wanted... I just wanted to see your face again, and then after... I wanted things to go back to the way they were. I didn’t want you to think I had changed. _I_ didn’t want to think I had changed. And now... I thought I could put my history aside, and give you what you wanted, but after last night... I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to behave like that. It appears that my subconscious was traumatised by my time in Serbia, and that I am no longer in control of my reactions.’ He looks disgusted by this revelation, the corners of his mouth quirking downwards, but his eyes remain closed.

‘Sherlock, if I had known, I never would have... I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry,’ John says quietly. He feels like he is fighting to wake up, like he is struggling to the surface after months and months of being buried alive. It appears that his panic has shaken him from his dark complacency, and now he is feeling the full brunt of his burning shame and inexcusable actions. It hurts. He deserves for it to hurt.

‘I hurt you, John,’ Sherlock says quietly, still refusing to make eye contact, ‘Time and again, and I don’t just mean with Mary. I didn’t appreciate you; I used you for my own means, even before. You suffered in Baskerville so I could test the poison. You watched me die so I could win the game. Hell, you committed murder within forty-eight hours of meeting me. There isn’t a single thing you have done to me that I haven’t been entirely deserving of. I don’t hold it against you; it is what I am owed.’

‘Not this, Sherlock, never this,’ John murmurs, his guilt and his grief washing over him. He knows that there is no reason on this earth that Sherlock should heed his words now, but he still feels as though he should say them. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘It doesn’t really matter, John,’ Sherlock replies heavily, ‘You were correct earlier; Mycroft is certainly on his way. I estimate we have about another three minutes before he arrives. He doesn’t need to wait to be notified by the Yard; I noticed the CCTV cameras tailing me from the moment I left the flat. He will arrive shortly, and undoubtedly I will be swept off to some facility or another for the foreseeable future.’ Despite his words, he doesn’t sound as though this is the worst thing in the world.

‘What kind of facility?’ John asks softly, and eyes Sherlock’s forearms conspicuously. Sherlock catches his gaze, and gives John a sad smile.

‘Not that kind,’ he says quietly, and — tentatively, shyly — inches his hand towards John’s. John makes no move to neither encourage nor refuse him, so Sherlock lays his hand lightly over John’s on the cool ground, ‘It’s a... A place for individuals being removed from... Potentially harmful situations. He and I have discussed it several times over the past few months, but I... I was reluctant to go. I think perhaps now I should. I... I have a lot I need to work on, John, and last night that became clear to me.’

‘I’m the harmful situation, aren’t I?’ John asks, coldness creeping across his chest. He flexes his hand against Sherlock’s.

‘According to Mycroft, but I assure you, I have continuously argued with him point for point,’ Sherlock replies honestly, ‘He doesn’t see it the way I see it, but it doesn’t much matter. He won’t be coming after you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I agreed to go only if — in no uncertain terms — he were to leave you to live your life as normally as possible. I want you to know, John, I hold no ill will against you. I just need to... To get away for awhile. To sort out Serbia, and coming home, and... And Mary. And us. And I know if I don’t go right now, while I feel strong enough to walk away, I never will. And things like what happened last night will continue to happen, and it will destroy the both of us.’

Sherlock, frustratingly, seems to feel as though the blame lies with him for suffering a flashback, when John knows it is so much more than that. He opens his mouth to argue with Sherlock, but before he can utter a single word, the other man places a finger over his lips, and says, ‘I know,’ the way he always does when he is three steps ahead of John, and John closes his mouth. He leans into Sherlock, and Sherlock leans back. They sit like that for a long moment, before Sherlock sits up, and pulls away.

‘Mycroft is likely entering the building as we speak, John,’ Sherlock says and forces himself to stand. He is still moving stiffly, and wincing in pain. He straightens his scarf, and turns to face the door, squaring his shoulders. John can see the words ‘into battle’ behind his eyes as he waits for his brother to arrive.

He is not disappointed. A few heartbeats later, and Mycroft is stepping onto the roof. 

‘Brother mine,’ he greets Sherlock before turning his gaze to John, ‘Doctor Watson,’ he says coldly, looking John up and down, ‘You should know, were it not for my brother’s express wishes, I would launch you from this building myself. You would not have a miracle resurrection, I assure you.’

‘Oh, piss off, Mycroft,’ Sherlock huffs, ‘The deal was you leave him alone. I said I would go with you, so let’s be off.’

‘Very well,’ Mycroft agrees, though his gaze is still fixed on John. John remembers telling him once that he doesn’t appear very frightening, but he regrets that now. Behind his poncy suit, and umbrella is the resolve of a stone cold killer. He can see now why Moriarty once called him the Ice Man. ‘A car is waiting for us downstairs. Come, brother mine.’

Sherlock turns, then hesitates, ‘Given that this is likely the last time I will see John Watson, would you kindly give us a moment?’ He asks Mycroft, who very reluctantly nods, and exits the roof, but not before fixing John with one last glare. Once he hears the door shut behind him, Sherlock returns his attention to John, and his face is a mask of regret and sorrow.

‘Please know that I am sorry, from the depths of my being, for all the hurt I have caused you John, from the very moment we met. I... I am sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be, and I hope in time you will find it in your heart to forgive me,’ he says quietly, ‘To the very best of times, Doctor Watson. I do so wish there could have been more.’

And with that, he presses a cool kiss to the side of John’s face, and follows his brother’s path off the roof. John finds he can’t move for several minutes before he breaks from his reverie, and strides purposefully towards the edge of the roof. He starts in the exact spot Sherlock stood when he called John all those years ago, and looks down. He sees Sherlock exit the building, and enter a waiting town car below, then watches as it glides effortlessly away, taking Sherlock onward to his next adventure without so much as a moment’s hesitation at leaving John behind.

He is still struggling to remind afloat. He inhales deeply, and it is as though the air entering his lungs is the first he’s breathed in ages. Instead of being numb and underwater, now all he can feel is pain — sharp pain he’s kept buried far too long. He feels the the stab of loss from Mary’s death as acutely as if the bullet had pierced him instead. He feels the ache of having his daughter so far from him for so long. And now, he feels the howling, empty void that means that Sherlock is gone — and this time for good. He’s finally woken up, but far too late.

And unlike last time, there is no magic trick. And unlike with Mary, there is no distraction, no scapegoat.

He stands on the edge of the roof for a moment longer, staring at the sidewalk down below so long that he is beginning to garner some attention from concerned civilians on the street. He looks at the pavement where he saw Sherlock bleed out — not the right words, but he decides it really doesn’t matter after all — and he considers for a long moment.

In the end, he steps down from the ledge, turns, and makes his way back inside. 

John is very much alone, and this time, he has no one to blame but himself.

~*~

_All my plans have fallen through_  
_All my plans depend on you_  
_Depend on you, to help them grow_  
_I love you, and that’s all I know._   
  
_But the ending always comes at last_   
_Endings always come too fast_   
_They come too fast, but they pass too slow_   
_I love you, and that’s all I know..._

**Author's Note:**

> Follow up... So, I’ll be the first to admit it’s not quite as good as the first piece, but it does give us a bit of closure on Sherlock’s storyline.
> 
> It was incredibly hard to write from Dark!John’s POV, and keep him in character as much as possible. He’s not a moustache-twirling villain — he’s an incredibly damaged, emotionally unstable man buried by grief, and it’s twisted him into someone, some_thing_ unrecognisable.
> 
> He has so much he owes Sherlock to say, but I couldn’t see a way to work it in to the roof top scene without making it seem like he’d been magically cured just because he was afraid Sherlock was going to jump off a building. It’s never that simple. Maybe it some day the spirit moves me to write a third instalment, I’ll address it then.
> 
> I think the biggest piece for me is that _Sherlock got out_, and hopefully when he gets to where he is going, he will learn that so much of what tormented John truly wasn’t his fault. He found the moment he was strong enough to walk away, and he took it, knowing that if he did not, he never would.
> 
> PS: to anyone interested, this is the song whose lyrics I borrowed. An oldie, but goodie... the piano is what kills me. 
> 
> https://youtu.be/2wpDYeGHfW8


End file.
